“She’s going to try and kill your mother,” I whisper.
And it feels wrong in a way I can’t explain.
The wraith isn’t supposed to care about the living.
She should be hunting Grim Reapers.
Huntingme.
But somehow, she’s found a way to do far worse.
And it’s going to be real difficult to stop her.
Iwake to the low hum of something. A sharp electric buzzing that blends with the headache blooming behind my eyes.
My wrists burn. Ankles too. My whole body aches like I’ve been to hell and back.
Problem is, I think only one of those things is true. I’ve been to hell. And I stayed there. That’s where I am now.
There’s concrete under my bare feet, cold and slightly damp, sending shivers through my nerves and making my calves throb. I’m sitting on something different. Metal. It digs into my spine.
A metal chair.
I try to move.
Nothing.
Rope. Tight. Around each wrist, each ankle. Another strap across my chest, holding me against the backrest. There isn’t even an inch to shift.
I’m locked in.
I try lifting my head. My neck screams. My eyelids feel glued shut, and it takes effort to force them open. Longer than I’d like. Because even though my heart is pounding, screaming at me toact, I already know, before my full senses return, that I’ve got no way out.
I’m powerless. Someone made damn sure of that.
“Hello, Cassian,” a voice says from my right. A man’s voice. Arrogant, self-satisfied.
My heart skips a beat. I already know who it is.
I force my eyes open and snap my head toward the voice. Heat surges through my chest, flooding my limbs. I yank against the restraints, rage overriding reason for a second, even though I know I’m not getting free.
Then the room comes into focus.
And I know.
Thisishell.
The space is dark, cluttered with shadows that shift over mismatched furniture. Shelves line the walls. A desk. A black-on-black pool table. A table meant for dining, or maybe interrogation. There’s even something that looks like a bar. In the back, a wall of monitors glows faintly, humming with static. That’s the sound I woke to. A quiet, constant electric pulse that fills the room non-stop.
And the man?
He’s sitting in a chair beside me. Close enough for me to smell his cologne, far enough that I couldn’t reach him if I tried. Even if I somehow convinced him to lean close, I wouldn’t get the chance to slam my head into his.
It wouldn’t work.
He knows what he’s doing.
First thing I clock: I’m not his first captive.
